


Avant-garde

by Yotka



Series: Comme il faut [2]
Category: Night at the Museum (Movies)
Genre: Arguments, Banter, But Everyone Will Be Happy, Cute, Fights, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Sexual Content, They Just Have to Get Over Themselves, nobody is happy, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23481088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yotka/pseuds/Yotka
Summary: They get Napoleon back. But they also don’t. It’s complicated, and Al is more upset than anyone. Thankfully, love always finds a way.
Relationships: Napoleon Bonaparte/Al Capone (Night at the Museum)
Series: Comme il faut [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689289
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21





	1. Disagreements

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Williammacabre13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Williammacabre13/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Larry has an idea, a solution. Al is not happy with it.

They want to know why Larry needs this specific exhibit, why he’s so adamant about it, why it’s so important. What in the world convinced the museum’s prestigious owners to allow this businessman to hunt for these outdated wax figures? Why not the newer models? Why not the ones with more interesting plaques and more accurate portrayals? Their questions are tenacious; they won’t budge. _Pompous academics,_ Larry thinks. 

But all those companies know a deal when they see one: The Smithsonian is on the market for a new Napoleon exhibit. Which means business, business, business. 

He gets an offer. 

It’s not the same one, but the same model. It’s not the one they lost. It would look exactly like Napoleon — his clothes, his face, his body, his stupid hat. Probably even his personality. Except it wouldn’t be _him_ , not really. Not the one that Al knows, that he loves, that he couldn’t stop thinking about, that he can’t seem to forget, to move away from.

Larry considers. His hand is practically hovering over the metaphorical _Purchase_ button. Al would have a fresh start. Sure, it’d take a while for this new Napoleon to grow accustomed to the back-to-life-at-night situation and fall in love with Al again, but if it happened once, couldn’t it happen once more? 

How bad could it be?

Larry visits the museum one night, something he doesn’t do too often anymore. In the aerospace wing of the Smithsonian, Al is found hanging out with the pilots. Larry tells him that he wants to talk and they take the elevator down to the storage facility. They stand, facing each other, Larry’s posture proper and businesslike while Al slouches and leans on an empty crate. He looks as if he’s in trouble and doesn’t meet Larry’s gaze.

Larry reveals that he has managed to “pull some strings” with the owners of the Smithsonian, who in turn “pulled some more strings” with potential sellers, along with other museums and institutions of learning. 

Al knows where this is going. A glimmer flashes through his eyes. 

Napoleon will be returning, he tells Al.

Of course, Al is excited. His whole face lights up like a full moon, demeanor becoming much more welcoming, affable. But he isn’t stupid. His newfound friendliness vanishes as quickly as it came. 

A cigarette is lit; he sucks in its fumes, casting Larry a characteristically unfriendly side-eye. “There's somethin’ else — somethin’ ya ain’t tellin’ me.”

So Larry tells him. Everything. No point in hiding the truth.

Al is shocked, if nothing else. “Ain’t it my call? He’s — he _was_ my partner, after all.”

“No,” he says, “it’s not. I already paid for the exhibit. It arrives in a few days' time.”

“Wha — why?”

“Because I knew you’d say no. You’d say that you don’t want Napoleon if he doesn’t have the memories. But you need this, Al. It’s very apparent. Ask anyone here.”

Al does not enjoy being told exactly what he feels; he refuses to go down without a fight. “So? It should be _my_ call, not anyone else’s. It doesn’t matter what _they_ think. _They_ weren’t with him like I was.”

“They’re your friends, they know you. They can tell that you need this, even if you can’t.”

“That’s bull.”

“That’s the truth.”

It doesn’t take much for Al to submit. His words lose their fire, the flame within his eyes smothers, and his gray complexion fizzes like a TV screen tuned to a dead channel. He smokes his cigarette like he’s a chimney. Come to think of it, Al never used to smoke so much, only from time to time, in passing, tentatively, but the past year was rocky for everyone. He gives Larry the impression of an addict.

“There’s no way I can get the old one back,” he says, smiling uncomfortably. He takes a feverish drag. “So take the next best thing, right?”

“Then you’re okay with this,” Larry states.

“ _Okay_ with this? Where’d ya get that impression? I ain’t okay with this. I wasn’t okay with Napoleon leavin’. That one’s on _you_. It was all yer fault. ‘N now ya got a solution, except it ain’t a solution — it’s like yer tryin’ to torture me or somethin’.”

“I know you’re hurting, Al. It’s been a year. A long, difficult year. But think about it: This is the only chance you’re going to get. You want to be happy again, right?” He sighs. “I’m sorry. You can never get the old Napoleon back. He’s gone. It’s above my power.”

“This feels wrong, Larry.”

“Do you want him back or not?”

“But it ain’t gonna _be_ him. Not really. I didn’t like Napoleon jus’ for his looks, y’know.”

“Do you want him back or not?” Larry repeats.

Al says nothing — he says nothing because, if he does, he knows that his voice will break and he’ll start balling his girly eyes out. He knows when he’s been defeated; he knows that Larry knows that he wants this so bad. But he also knows that this whole scheme has the ability to backfire, to leave him more hurt than he was before. 

“Do you have any questions, then? Before I go?”

“Come to think of it, yeah.” He takes another drag. “He’ll look exactly like my Napoleon, right?”

“Yes. He comes from the same manufacturer, the same company, the same services. Exactly like the one we all know.”

“And he’ll act the same, right?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Bashfully, he looks at his shoes. “What if he doesn’t like me?”

“Al, that’s a dumb question. Of course he’ll like you. He’s technically the same Napoleon, so he’ll love you.”

He asks no more questions.


	2. More Disagreements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon can be a bit of a jerk when he wants to be. Unfortunately for him, Al isn’t in the mood for it.

Napoleon awakens to darkness.

It’s cold.

Hours pass.

He is laying on his back, unable to move freely. Some kind of tickly material surrounds him; it feels like soft hay. He finds that what confines him is a rectangular box, fitted to his height and width.

_Un cercueil?_ he thinks, terrified. (A coffin?)

Gingerly, he touches the boarders, feeling the wooden planks underneath his prints. Little rays of light slither through the cracks. He concludes that this some sort of crate, but fails to recall how he ended up in here, or much of anything else. 

Squinting through the cracks between the planks, Napoleon makes out a nice room. Wooden flooring, painted walls, intricate rugs. He can see glass cases containing what must be museum exhibits, though their centerpieces are somehow missing from the displays. Where did they all go? And why in the world is he stuck inside of a crate in a museum? He does not belong in such a place; he is Napoleon Bonaparte, general of the French army, emperor of France!

_“Aidez moi, aidez moi! J'ai besoin d'aide!”_ he shouts, banging his fists against the planks. _“Je suis là!”_ (Help me, help me! I need help! I’m in here!)

Muffled voices can suddenly be heard. He puts his fists down and shuts his mouth. Just outside of the crate, people speak as if they don’t wish to be heard but are currently doing an awful job of it. Their whispers are loud, akin to hushed shouting. Whatever their language is, he gets the impression that they’re locked in a tense argument. 

_“Salut?”_ he says. (Hello?)

They fall silent again. He senses their stiff, frazzled presence. 

_“Bonghjornu?”_ he offers, in Corsican. Then, in Italian, he says, _“Ciao?”_ He even tries German: _“Guten Tag?”_

Then the lid pops off. Just like that. Light beams through; he shields his eyes, colorful splotches dancing across his vision. Sitting up in the crate, he analyzes the situation. 

A man and a woman sit at either side of the crate, appearing to be the people who initially pried the thing off. The woman has short ginger hair, startling blue eyes, and a round face with big cheeks. The man, in contrast, has dark hair, dark eyes, and a thin face. Both harbor an equally unsettling expression that confuses Napoleon, as if they aren’t sure what to say, as if they’re apprehensive, afraid. 

“Napoleon?” the woman says, hopeful. 

Her pronunciation is odd. She seems to know him, to recognize him; he is ashamed that he cannot say the same for her. Those accusing eyes force his gaze to instead drift to the man, who is less expressive and easier to look at.

Napoleon stifles. _“Qui êtes vous? Où suis-je?”_ he asks, suspicious. (Who are you? Where am I?)

“Uh…” The man says something else that Napoleon cannot understand. A word that he used — “French” — sounded quite similar to _français_ , but that was all he could salvage. 

_“Vous ne parlez pas français?”_ asks Napoleon. (You don’t speak French?)

The man and the woman exchange a few tight-lipped words before she stands up and leaves. Not angrily, though. Something tells Napoleon that he hasn’t seen the last of her. 

The man takes Napoleon by the shoulder and helps him to his feet. Gruffly, like this is his duty. _Nous allons maintenant?_ he thinks. (We’re moving now?) He is led down a hallway full of paintings and statues and plaques and exhibits. Napoleon recognizes a couple of things, here and there, but most of it is entirely foreign to him, from another planet. Especially the people traipsing the halls who look like they come from all walks of life. They give him the oddest hurried glances. 

It’s not a good feeling; he hardly feels better alongside this blank-faced man, clad in a navy blue uniform and shiny shoes and that tiny clock attached to a bracelet upon his wrist. 

_Vêtements bizarres,_ he thinks. (Odd clothes.)

He recognizes English on the plaques that they pass over. He concludes that this must be the language they speak. _Ce sont des américains — l'anglais américain est moche._ (They must be Americans — their English sounds so ugly.)

The man stops at a door. He knocks on it in an impatient, exasperated manner. Napoleon wonders what’s on the other side and why this man is frustrated with it. Is it friendly? Is it malicious? Helpful? He has no idea what to think anymore. Though all logical signs point towards it, this certainly can’t be a dream — not even his subconscious could cook up such a tale.

Muffled movement comes from the other end of the door. It swings open all the way, startling Napoleon. He takes a step backward.

At the sight of the man at the door, Napoleon nearly gasps. Supernatural! Magic! Witchcraft! He fights the urge to rub his eyes in an attempt to expel this ridiculousness; he thinks better of it as to not upset the extraordinary man that stands before him. 

Gray. He’s — he’s _gray_!

Immediately, Napoleon looks to his side at the blank-faced man, eyes wide in an attempt to convey his thoughts. The man meets his eyes, a little confused but, as always, entirely unresponsive. 

_Il ne se soucie pas? Sa peau est gris…!_ (He does not care? His skin is gray…!)

The two exchange words in English; it sounds like another fast-paced argument. All the while, Napoleon can’t help but stare. The gray man senses this and uncomfortably tries not to make eye contact with him, like he’s ashamed to be seen. Napoleon can tell he’s nervous.

Then the blank-faced man walks away. He just goes, leaving Napoleon behind, unsure if he should follow or not. The gray man hurls more words at his back, growing louder the farther he gets, obviously infuriated by his abrupt self-dismissal, but there isn’t a thing he can do about it. Once he’s out of sight, the gray man, as if he’d rather be doing anything _but_ this, turns to Napoleon. He is intimidating but his eyes remain trained on the ground, his hands on his hips; pissed off, apprehensive.

_“Ciao.”_ He says this like he’d rather be talking to anyone else. (Hey.)

Napoleon is relieved. _“_ _Parli italiano?”_ (You speak Italian?)

_“Certo che lo faccio.”_ (Of course I do.)

Such biting remarks are only to be expected from this tall, grumpy gray man. Napoleon is unsure what to say next, lest he accidentally blows his fuse. He doesn’t want to be the object of someone’s fury at the moment; what he wants are answers.

“So,” the man continues in Italian, coughing a little. “I’m Al.” As if it hurts him to speak. “And I already know yer name. Everybody here does.”

“Where the hell am I?” The words fly out of his mouth, impatient and firey and accusing. “Who were those people? Why am I in a museum? And your name is Al? _Al? Quel genre de nom est-ce!_ ” (What kind of name is that!)

He rubs his eyes, too exhausted for such things. “Alright, alright. Yer in a museum,” he says. “Yer in the United States of America, in Washington, D.C. The year’s 2016. Yer an exhibit at this museum. In conclusion, ya ain’t in Kansas anymore.”

“ _Kansas?_ What do you…? I am in the Americas? How… how did I — what are you talking about? I am an exhibit? What does that mean?”

“That guy ya were jus’ with, his name’s Larry. He used to be the night guard or somethin’. He’s a businessman now,” he explains. “‘N everyone dresses so weird ‘cause we’re in a museum, and they’re exhibits come to life. Jus’ like yourself.” 

“How am I an exhibit? I am a man, not a servant — they cannot do this to me!”

“Hey, hey, you’ve got this all wrong,” he says. “Yer a wax figure of the real Napoleon, come to life. Here, I’ll show ya the golden tablet. It’s the thing that gives ya life. Every night.”

_“What?”_

Napoleon does not want to go anywhere with this supernatural man but allows himself to be led away. They converse as they walk. Somehow, Al gets even more shy. To Napoleon, it’s ridiculous. How could such a big and scary man be so shy, so nervous?

“D’ya… recognize anythin’?” 

Again with that hopeful lilt that poisons all of these strange peoples’ words!

“Of course not. What kind of question is that? I have never been to America in my life!” he snaps. 

“Alright, settle down there, sailor. No need to get all defensive. I know it’s a, well — it’s difficult ‘n all, but you’ll get used to it. Really, yer —”

“And what is wrong with you? Why are you gray?”

Al does a double-take. He nearly stops in his tracks, surprised to the point of immobility. But recovery is immediate and their trek fails to be delayed.

“Upfront, aren’tcha?” he says. “I’m an exhibit at this museum, too. In the future, there’s these things called cameras that take pictures of people, y’know? And, in my time, those cameras only took black ‘n white pictures, right? And… well, yer not gettin’ this, are ya?”

“No.”

“Ya will. Yer gonna be here for awhile — you’ll get it, eventually.”

“So why _are_ you gray?”

“Ni — Napoleon, I jus’ explained the damn thing!”

“I did not understand; I told you that!”

“That ain’t my fault!”

“It is, actually, because —”

Al stops walking and leers down at Napoleon. “Now yer a know-it-all, huh?”

“What? No, I mean that you should explain it to me in a way I can understand.”

“Y’know what? _Fine_ ,” he says. “I’m gray ‘cause — ah, let’s see — a witch cursed me! Yeah, ‘n she ‘n her witch friends danced around a fire ‘n cursed me ‘cause —”

“Do not mock me!”

”Who says I’m mockin’ ya? Ya said to say it in a way that yer puny brain can understand.”

”Oh, now you are playing with me, are you?” coos Napoleon.

The flirtatious tone that men tend to adopt in arguments in order to taunt the other person makes itself known. For a second, there is a glint in Al’s dark eyes; Napoleon recognizes the forlorn hopefulness that continues to plague everyone he has met so far.

It’s all too much. Napoleon turns nasty. He speaks to Al like he is lesser than him, like he isn’t worth his time. 

“Where is that other man, the one who is not a freak? Or that woman?” he continues.“I would rather be escorted by one of them than by such a disrespectful little —”

“Who ya callin’ _little_ , shorty?”

To show off his height, which would therefore show off his superiority, Al takes a step closer to Napoleon. He pops the personal space bubble, leering down at him, arms crossed. Their height difference is laughable.

Napoleon’s heart flutters.

“Ya wanna say somethin’ else, huh? Watch what happens,” he hisses, shoving an accusative finger into Napoleon’s chest. “Ya might’ve been some hotshot general in yer past life, but yer nothin’ here. Yer jus’ like the rest of us.”

“‘Might’ve?’” snorts Napoleon, batting the finger away. “I _am_ the general of the French army _and_ the emperor of France! What can you say for yourself? That you are big and strong, tall and gray? Because you speak like a tough homeless boy? Because you are a worthless freak? Because of cameras or pictures or whatever you were going on about! Oh, what achievements! What grandeur! You belong in a circus, not a museum!”

He knew he had gone too far by the time the last syllable left his lips. He does not consider it wrong to say such things, but a person has limits, and if there’s anything he knows about people like Al, such limits are short.


	3. Agreements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight, a few weeks, and a friendship (of sorts).

The fight is brief. Though he definitely deserves it, Napoleon is a essentially a victim, harmless on the account that he didn’t throw a single punch. It is Al who was vicious and rightfully angry. 

No matter if Napoleon was originally the one who provoked the whole scuffle — how was he supposed to know that provoking Al is just the same as prodding a bear with a stick? Things were taken way too far, and it was not Napoleon’s fault.

A fist slams into Napoleon’s face. The fall-back is immediate, his nose dripping blood, though he manages to stay upright; he is shocked more than anything. Al, invigorated, takes a fistful of Napoleon’s clothing and roughly shoves him to the ground. A sickening _crack!_ results from the floor connecting with his skull. He sees stars, he reels, but Al isn’t finished.

He climbs on top, straddling him. He’s done this many times before, so many. In a different context, of course. A different way. This — it’s all wrong and he knows it. Really. But he can’t help himself from being so angry, so hurt, so frustrated with this imposter, this man who despises him, calls him a freak, makes him feel so alone with every insult that flies out of his mouth.

* * *

Weeks pass before they speak to each other again.

Napoleon takes to befriending men much like himself: kings, emperors, sultans, tsars, monarchs, even advisors. As Larry makes his nightly rounds, he suspects that Napoleon doesn’t care for them. The general gives off the impression that he’s grown bored with such people and such ways; in contrast, Amelia concludes that he’s just still a bit shaken up after the fight, and is having difficulty connecting to strangers right after a stranger had beaten the ever-loving crap out of him.

Al, in turn, spends all of his time with the pilots. Not Amelia specifically, though they do see each other on occasion and have their little chats, which mostly consist of her doing all the talking while Al awkwardly inches away. She thinks that he’s avoiding her.

Could it be her connection with Larry, the perpetrator of all of Al’s problems, that makes him so avoidant? Or is it her initial friendship with the Old Napoleon, the love of his life that had (technically) kicked the bucket?

“It was quite upsetting, what he said to Al,” says Amelia. “Did you peep what Al did to him? He quite literally beat poor ol’ Nippy to a pulp! Why, I’m convinced that man’s a Zoanthropy, Mr. Daley!”

“I just never thought they’d be so violent. Why would Al…?”

“He’s upset. He’s been upset for the past year, and now that his little boyfriend isn’t really his little boyfriend anymore, that only makes him more upset. And we all know how Al deals with his emotions when Nippy — I mean, the Old Nippy’s not around.”

“What do you think we should do, then? I can’t let this go on,” says Larry. “They _have_ to get along, Amelia.”

“You’re trying to make me do your work for you, Mr. Daley? I’m pretty wabbit at the moment, but I’ll tell ya this: We must get them talking. I tell ya, it’ll be a cinch! They’re both the biggest bloviates I’ve ever laid eyes on! But we must get them talking _to each other_.”

“They’ll rip each other to shreds.”

“They’ll figure it out on their own. Even if Napoleon isn’t interested, Al is, and he’s quite a force to be reckoned with, wouldn’t you say?”

“I guess so. But if I lose two exhibits tonight, that’s on you.”

“I wouldn’t worry a taradiddle about it.”

* * *

It is Al who decides to make things right. He finds Napoleon sitting on a bench in a room lined with paintings, staring at the plaques plastered beside each. A few other exhibits mill about the room, but none are interactive.

He’s not sure what to expect, knowing that their last encounter nearly broke Napoleon’s nose and left him the color of an eggplant. Al swallows his pride and sits next to Napoleon. 

_“Ciao.”_

Napoleon absently regards him, poker-faced, mutters a little _“Ciao,”_ before looking back to a plaque.

Al follows his gaze. It’s a sizable painting, showcasing a woman being carried off by a bull while four other people stand idly on the shore, stricken and upset. Al doesn’t like it much. The colors are a bit drab, but what does he know? He for sure ain’t no art critic.

But Al also knows that Napoleon could care less about the painting and its depictions. 

_“Stai avendo problemi?”_ (Havin’ trouble?)

_“Cosa intendi?”_ His voice is gruff, defensive. (What do you mean?) 

“Readin’,” he explains. “Somethin’ tells me that ya ain’t an English major.”

Napoleon sighs. “You are right — I am not doing so well.”

“I can… y’know, _help_ ya, if ya want. I mean, if ya really wanna learn English, this fancy stuff’s jus’ gonna confuse ya. Ya need somethin’ simple.”

He gives up and fully turns his head to face Al. It’s as if Napoleon wants him to see what he’s done to him, wants him to feel bad about doing it. His right cheek is bruised, purplish in color, along with his left eye. He doesn’t seem happy, but he doesn’t seem completely disgusted, so Al takes it as a win.

“Are you trying to apologize?”

He exhales through his nose, reluctant. “Yes.”

Napoleon doesn’t respond. 

_Damn that smug face._

“I’m sorry.”

“So you will help me?”

“Sure. If ya want, I can read English ‘n translate it to Italian for ya.”

_“Che cosa significa tutto questo? Non riesco a leggere questo,”_ he says, gesturing towards the plaque. (Then what does it say? I cannot decipher a thing.) 

“‘Kay, let’s see here.” He skims the whole thing before continuing. “Alright, alright. So, basically, here’s what it says: 

“‘Rembrandt's _The Abduction of Europa (1632)_ is one of his rare mythological subject paintings. The inspiration for the paintin’ is Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ , part of which tells the tale of Zeus's seduction ‘n capture of Europa.’ Uh…” He loses his place for a moment. “Oh, yeah. ‘The painting shows a coastal scene with Europa bein’ carried away in rough waters by a bull while her friends remain on shore with expressions of horror.’ The, um… ‘The use of an ancient myth to impart a contemporary thought ‘n his portrayal of the scene usin’ the High Baroque style are two strong aspects of the work.’”

Napoleon nods. “Okay, I got a few things right, then.”

“Y’know, ya don’t have to learn English. Plenty o’ exhibits here speak French ‘n Italian ‘n Corsican, includin’ me. Well, Italian, that is. I dunno the others.”

Napoleon furrows his eyebrows a little, and Al knows that he’s in trouble. “How do you know that I speak Corsican?”

“I, uhh… well, y’know, uh — Larry, well, he — he told me. Remember when we first met? Well, he told me then.”

“He speaks Corsican?”

“No, I don’t think so, but he obviously knows that ya do.”

“How?”

Al shrugs a little too casually. “Beats me.”

“Strange. I must ask him about this.”

“Yeah, ya should. That’s so weird.”

_Who am I kiddin’? I’m an awful liar when I’m around this little idiot!_

They are silent for a moment, just sitting there, staring at the damned painting together. Al fights the increasing urge to put his arm around Napoleon, to flirt with him, to kiss his cheek, his nose, his eyes, his lips. Napoleon used to laugh until tears flowed when he did that. Back then, Al loved to tease him; Napoleon loved to be teased.

“It is not so nice to be here.”

He is catapulted from his thoughts and lands face-first into reality. “Whatcha mean?” He realizes now that Napoleon is forlorn and changes his tone considerably. “I mean — yer gonna be fine. You’ll get used to it, we all did.”

“It has been weeks and I still do not understand any of this. I have made friends who do not fully understand, but understand enough, and they are fine while I am not.”

“I can help ya.” He doesn’t _dare_ look Napoleon in the eyes and casts his gaze to his lap. “If you’d like.”

“I would like that,” he says. “I am getting used to this but it’s all so difficult. I just — I do not know, I want to go home. Is that childish to say?”

“No, it’s normal, but it ain’t possible.”

“When I was in that crate, I thought I was in a coffin. Buried alive. I was so afraid. Hours passed like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

Napoleon purses his lips. “I am… uh, I am sorry, too, for being so nasty to you a few weeks ago. I was out of line. I was so —”

“Afraid. Yeah, I get it. It’s cool, everyone’s like that on their first day.”

“Really?”

“No. Yer jus’ an ass.”

Napoleon laughs.

Al stiffens. It — it’s _just_ like him! Just like _his_ Napoleon… So genuine and pretty and maintained and he even puts his hand up to cover his laughter. It’s so familiar, the exact copy of millions of moments that took place so many years ago, so many different times, and Al had taken it for granted. A beautiful replica…

This is going to be more difficult than he had first anticipated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Al reads the plaque pertaining to Rembrandt’s “The Abduction of Europa,” the majority of the paragraph was taken from Wikipedia’s article on the matter at: 
> 
> https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Abduction_of_Europa_(Rembrandt)


	4. More Agreements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are better between them, but it can never compare to what they once had.

The passage of time is a curse for many, a blessed thing for very few. Those few tend to change their opinions as they learn and grow older. At the moment, however, Al is one of the few who see it as a damn miracle.

They warm up to each other over the course of a couple of months. Arguments and disagreements happen every other day like clockwork, but it never jeopardizes anything. If anything, they enjoy it. Five times out of ten, a fierce argument will end in laughter; they’re always conscious of how ridiculous their little disputes are, but they love it. Many of their arguments are for humor’s sake while some are even a bit flirtatious — that is, if they allow their minds to dwell on it.

Al really wants to kiss him. Like, a lot. It’s difficult to think of anything else. As regular as their disputes, it happens indefinitely; Napoleon will be talking about something or other and Al can’t help how his mind wanders, how he wishes for the way things were.

One day, as they’re walking through a corridor of Greek and Roman statues, Napoleon asks Al about his past life. It’s all fun and games until he brings up the inevitable:

_“Sei mai stato sposato?“_ (Were you ever married?)

“Yeah, when I was alive,” he says. “And yourself?”

“Of course. Many people marry themselves off out of necessity, but I did not. Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you marry out of necessity, Al?”

His answer sounds lame; hollow. “No.”

“You seem like you do not want to talk about this,” Napoleon says.

“I’d rather not get into it. I did like her, though.” He pauses. “A few years ago, when I was still, y’know, an exhibit at this museum, I was kinda married for awhile.”

“To another exhibit?”

“It wasn’t official or anythin’, but we sometimes referred to each other in that way, y’know?”

“Ah, I did not know that it was possible — for exhibits to be together. Very strange. Do not mind my prying but was it someone from your own era or… a different one?”

“A completely different one.” He lightly elbows Napoleon. “He was actually from yer era.”

“He?”

Al’s heart stops. He hadn’t meant to let that detail slip — it had just tumbled out. He hadn’t been used to hiding such things around the Old Napoleon. “Uh, yeah. _He._ ”

“So you used to be married to a woman?”

“Yeah.”

“And then a man?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Napoleon doesn’t say anything. It’s the most grueling minute of Al’s life, which isn’t exactly true — it’s the most grueling minute he’s had _at the museum_ , technically. When he was alive, really alive, things were much worse. 

“I have met men like you before, ones who lay with both” is all Napoleon says before continuing with his original spiel about all the statues that he recognizes. He leaves Al to wonder — what is he thinking? Does Napoleon really not care? Perhaps he is interested. The Old Napoleon had been very interested the first time they met but his prudence always mucked things up, leading Al to believe that he was in fact uninterested. Old Napoleon eventually forced himself to swallow his pride — among other things — and they got together. 

Al remembers that day very well. Like it was yesterday. 

Amelia was present for it, too; she had a front row seat! She had always been a dear friend, hadn’t she? She doesn’t really listen to people when they talk and her no-mountain-too-high attitude proves to be more trouble than it’s worth and she regularly “spices up” her vocabulary with odd words that make everyone within a hundred mile radius want to strangle her — no matter; he still likes her. It’s hard to say why.

Anyway, Al, Old Napoleon, and Amelia were sitting outside. Larry had allowed them to bring out two big flashlights to the lawn, which was near Abraham Lincoln’s statue. They could hear him periodically swatting at the pesky pigeons looking to nest and poop. 

Napoleon wanted to see the stars. That was why they were out there in the first place. A few other exhibits also found spots on the lawn to stargaze, spreading out a blanket and turning off their flashlights. 

Many of them were couples. Al had been blushing so hard; he hadn’t been sure if Napoleon noticed the couples, but upon recounting the situation at a later time, Napoleon admitted that he had noticed and felt very, very embarrassed. At least Amelia was present to soften the blow — upon reflection, she always expressed that she felt like such a third-wheel long before they’d gotten together.

They sat on the grass and laid down onto their backs, the soft blades tickling the lobes of their ears.

Amelia knows everything there is to know about constellations. In her usual flowery way of speaking, she described everything she recognized to them, even the more obscure ones. Napoleon could point out a few — Al was simply reeling over the fact that these people were seeing hunters and twins and bulls and dippers — what the hell’s a _dipper_? — while all he was seeing were tiny little dots. 

“Am I missin’ somethin’ or what?”

“You cannot see? How can you not see?” Napoleon had said, baffled.

“My head ain’t in the clouds all the time, that’s what. I dunno any of this crap.”

“Well, it is nice to look at the sky every once and awhile, is it not?”

The gentleness in Napoleon’s voice softens the initial roughness in Al’s. “I guess so. ‘Still don’t see the hunters.”

“There is only one hunter. Orion,” explained Napoleon. He pointed. “Look, do you see it?”

“They’re jus’ stars.”

He gave up. “We are not all meant to be stargazers, I suppose.”

“I like stargazin’, I jus’ ain’t seein’ what yer seein’.”

“Are you calling us crazy, Mr. Capone?” Ameli pipes up from beside Napoleon.

“ _Crazy_ is a strong word; _delusional_ is what I’m shootin’ for.”

They were laying right next to each other, he and Napoleon. He had then turned to face Al, smiling sweetly at the little joke, in a genuine sort of way. Why did all of his smiles look so smug, so adorable, kissable? Though Al could hardly see him in the dark, he could discern that their noses were closer than they should’ve been, Napoleon’s eyes so suggestive, so delighted, twinkling brightly.

At that point, they both wanted to be more than friends. Everybody could at least sense it. But, being the idiots that they typically are, they danced around the idea for a year or two. But now was the time. They knew it. No more waiting, no more longing, no more bashfulness — no more.

“The twins are such a nice pair to see up there, wouldn’t you say? I believe the correct term is Gemini, if I can recall…” Amelia continued.

She trailed off once she noticed what was apparently going on beside her: Napoleon and Al _kissing_. Like, full-on _making out_. Right next to her. And they weren’t showing any signs of slowing down. She thought better of cracking a few jokes; Amelia mutely turned back to the stars. The background noise was less than enjoyable — not if you found kissing noises and giggling and Al’s dumb little moans enjoyable, that is, which Amelia did _not_ — but she blocked it out as she searched the sky for that darn bull.

Some could say the two had “rushed into things” too hastily, and Al could see how that was true — seriously, they should’ve at least waited a month before having sex — but it had all worked out in the end, hadn’t it? 

Well, not exactly, but it will. Eventually.

He eyes Napoleon as he speaks of the infamous Greek statues.

  
 _It has to work. It_ has _to._ _I’ll do anythin’ —_ anythin’ _, please. Jus’ make it the way it was. I can’t take this anymore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it would be funny if Amelia was “present” when they officially “got together.” I know that full-on making out is a bit cheesy and unrealistic and pretentious, but I got a real kick out of Amelia awkwardly being there, happy for them but laying there like “Okay, guys, we get it.” I dunno, the situation seemed too funny to pass up.


	5. Agree to Disagree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Al is still sad and reminiscent, Napoleon makes a breakthrough.

He must wait for the right time. It isn’t a matter of the perfect opportunity or a moment of clarity — all it is, is a matter of time. Lots of it.

Napoleon is one of those people who’re upfront with every detail of their life to an ardurrant degree but refuse to reveal the tiniest nimble of their true feelings. He had come to learn (from the Old Napoleon) that this was due to personal pride and deep-rooted insecurity. What Al needs is to be patient. To wait for a man to fall in love with him seems so terribly pretentious; Al reassures himself that it’s not entirely true, that he likes hanging around the guy regardless, relationship or no relationship. 

The loneliness is nevertheless a heavy weight. He’s not _lonely_ lonely — it’s like he’s _romantically_ lonely. _Physically_ _lonely,_ he thinks admittedly. He wants to be in a relationship again, to kiss someone again, to run his fingers through someone’s hair, to cuddle and nimble at their neck, and it’s especially hard when that someone is standing less than a couple of feet away, oblivious to it all. 

One memory in particular captives him, even years later: He and Old Napoleon chowing down Chinese takeout for the first time — courtesy of Larry — while sitting on the floor, near the painting exhibitions. Napoleon thought the wobbly noodles were funny, especially when Al put one between his lips and sucked until it disappeared into his mouth. That warranted a plethora of giggles from both parties.

“You come from a cartoon,” Napoleon had said, looking at him in that special way only he could do. 

“Like the ones Larry shows us on the projector?”

“Yes, on movie night! They blow my mind! Do you recall the film with the dogs?”

Al entwined some noodles around his platic fork and took a bite. “The one that has those mice in clothes?”

“No, the film with the girl dog and the boy dog falling in love.”

“Lady and the Tramp?”

“Yeah, that one,” he said, smiling.

“What, you wanna do it?”

“Do what?”

“The scene with the spaghetti, o’ course!”

Napoleon laughed and switched his attention back to his food. “No, I am good.”

“C’mon, I already got one for ya.”

Bewildered, Napoleon looked up to find a particularly long noodle hanging out of Al’s pursed mouth. 

It took him awhile to get over his laughter. “No, I am good. I would rather kiss you without a noodle between us, or whatever you are trying to do.”

Quickly, Al sucked the noodle into his mouth and swallowed. “In that case…” He leaned over, which Napoleon readily welcomed, and softly kissed him on the lips. They smiled all the while, even as Napoleon grasped either side of his face to deepen it and they both began working their lips. Al was always the bold one, an air of lustful humor to his actions, sticking his tongue down Napoleon’s throat (which was an exaggeration) like it was his God-given right.

As much as Al liked to think he was a rough, merciless lover, Napoleon knew better. He always knew better. In truth, Al was truly a sweetheart, a giant teddy bear with a tough exterior and a fluffy interior. Napoleon, as Al loved to tease him about, was quite the opposite: fluffy on the outside, tough on the inside. 

They pulled away, catching their breath, and had a romantic little chat that made both of their eyes twinkle and their faces lift. Takeout now forgotten, Al scooted closer. He put an arm around Napoleon, as he always did, and, with his index finger and his thumb, tilted Napoleon’s chin upwards to kiss him again. 

He plays the memory over and over in his mind, like a broken stereo or a repeating tape recorder or a speech impediment. Despite the simplicity and stupidness of the interaction, he can’t seem to get enough of it. These memories haunt him every time he looks into Napoleon’s unassuming eyes, every fleeting moment that they touch, every eyeroll that Napoleon gives Al’s stupid antics.

Anger fills his body like a rising thermometer.

Somehow, he can’t find it within himself to be patient with this Napoleon. Maybe in the beginning, but not anymore.

He just wants to be loved again. 

* * *

Napoleon has come to understand his surroundings with more proficiency than before. The fact that he will likely never leave this museum and cannot go back to his past life had settled in long ago; in his opinion, the prospect seems less soul-crushing than the other exhibits make it out to be. Many wax figures and statues have to go through extensive “therapy,” which consists of both the well-known and lesser-known exhibits providing the troubled ones with insight, and, most importantly, someone to talk to.

Napoleon mentions these sessions to Al. Al will only nod, half-listening. To him, therapy is a (rather popular) fact of the museum, so bringing it up doesn’t mean anything. 

“I know,” he’ll say, laughing gently, “I _live_ here, dumbass.”

That is not why Napoleon broaches the subject. 

He desperately wishes Al to be less oblivious to what’s going on, less uninterested in what Napoleon knows he needs. Napoleon only wants the best for his friend, after all.

In truth, he worries for Al’s mental health. That is why he brings up the therapy. Even he can tell that Al has problems opening himself up to people — it’s like there’s another half of him that Napoleon hasn’t befriended yet, that Al keeps hidden away, afraid to set free. What exalts this fear? Napoleon is no psychologist but he knows emotional internalization when he sees it — it is shockingly apparent — and a general lack of any real happiness.

In other words, depression. 

Al is attached, if not hopelessly clingy. He has never clung to anyone quite like he has clung to Napoleon. Napoleon sees him with his other friends all the time — he has quite the load of people who would vouch for him anyday; if he’s being honest, Napoleon is envious of such a community. 

But Al could care less about his other friends if it meant he was by Napoleon’s side; he sees him as his _best_ friend, and not in the overused, desensitized way — to put it bluntly and perhaps a little humorously, it is as if he sees Napoleon as his little boyfriend. 

It is overwhelmingly discernible that Al is in love with him.

To think such thoughts about Al, in Napoleon’s opinion, is so boldly assuming and pretentiously self-gratifying. But it makes sense. It makes so much sense: The evidence is sky-high. If Al is talking with a group of his mobster buddies and Napoleon happens to walk in the room, Al drops the conversation like a hot potato and walks over to Napoleon with a smile on his face and a pleasant greeting. Or if he’s messing with the pilots’ airplanes and Napoleon happens to show up and see what the fuss is about, Al immediately calls him over to chat. 

Al never wants to see him alone or sad or jealous or discouraged or angry — not _really_ angry, at least — or unwelcome or dissatisfied or struggling or wronged.

Sometimes he even accidentally lets things slip.

“Yer cute,” he’ll say, then quickly add, “‘cause yer small,” which invariably gets on Napoleon’s nerves and leads into a frustrated rant while the initial comment is forgotten. Or so Al _thinks_ it is forgotten. But Napoleon remembers. He isn’t stupid, after all.

So, is Al in love with him? _Love_ is a strong word… but yes, he believes so. Does Al have a problem with sharing his real thoughts and emotions? Yes, to a worrisome extent. Are Al’s intentions truly good and pleasant, even if they don’t always come across that way? Napoleon supposes so.

“Which begs the question that you are avoiding,” Christine says. “Do _you_ like him back?”

_It really pays to have someone to talk to about all of this,_ Napoleon thinks cheekily. _Al should take notes._

Her full name is Christine de Pizan. She has come to be an enjoyable companion, speaking both Italian and French, and Napoleon’s first impression of the author was that she was wise beyond her years yet as stubborn as a stone-faced church official.

“That is a funny question, actually…” begins Napoleon.

He is rightfully cut off. _“C'est une question oui ou non. Tu dois décider.”_ (It is a yes or no question. You must decide.)

“Without contemplation or a single cent of reason, I would immediately say yes, I do,” he says, exhaling like he just disclosed something incriminating. “But _upon_ contemplation and _multiple_ cents of reason, I come to this conclusion: No, I do not.”

“Why?”

“Because it is… agh, I — it would never work!” he exclaims. “Me and him? It is strange to think of! We are so different, even you can see that. The only things we have in common are our tempers! And, as I previously mentioned, he is clearly depressed and unstable and clingy! We would only hurt each other if we were to…”

“And yet you still consider it.”

He stiffens defensively, raising his chin. “I suppose so.”

“You think about it and you cannot stop thinking about it, thoughasmuch it upsets you.”

“I… well, _upset_ is a strong word, Christine, but I… I think that —”

“You are excited by the prospect?”

“An exaggeration, uh — I mean, that is quite an exaggeration that you… that you —”

“You are not so sure of yourself.”

“My feelings,” he says, gesturing his hand as if briefly mentioning something unimportant. “They always get in the way.”

“Of reason?”

_“Exactement.”_ (Exactly.)

She sighs wistfully. “Ah, so you are a romantic. That is a special occupation, no?” 

“I suppose it is,” he says, grinning. The conversation finally turns easy and untroubled at the mention of romantics, warranting smiles to grace both of their faces. 

Christine makes sure it does not last long.

“How do you define the word ‘happiness,’ Napoleon?”

He contemplates this. “An abstract concept.”

“I tell you to define, not clarify.”

“I think happiness is the ability to feel pleasure and joy at the best of times, to be content with one’s life.” He adds, “It is to be able to smile and mean it.”

“So to _be_ happy is to _feel_ happy, correct?”

“Yes.”

“When you are with Al, would you say that you feel happy?”

“Well, that’s —”

“It is a yes or no question, my friend.”

He sighs in defeat. “Yes.”

“You are very smart but also very stupid.” She stares knowingly. “Reason gets in the way of your feelings. Reason can lead you to properness and conformity and wealth and pride, but _feeling_ leads you to true happiness.”

Napoleon nods. He cannot find a way to redirect the route that this conversation has taken — she was supposed to _agree_ with him, lament and console him, not totally humiliate him! _That’s the price you pay if you want actual advice,_ he thinks resentfully. 

“In other words, my reason and my emotions are disproportionate,” he states.

“I grow tired of this conversation,” she suddenly says, leaning on the palm of her hand. “You sift through my brain and pick the best thoughts for yourself.”

“Christine — you must at least be conclusive!”

“Follow your heart. Your instincts know best. Don’t allow this to get in the way of what’s important.”

_“Ce qui est important?”_ (And what is important?)

Christine regards him, her eyes flickering, analyzing as if she only needs to gaze upon his face to understand it all. “I do have some ideas, Napoleon, but I don’t know. What is important to you?”

She leaves the room and, in doing so, leaves him to wonder:

_What is important to me?_

The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense, the more he is able to come to terms with it, the more he is sure, so sure, that this is what he wants, what’s important to him, what really brings him joy and comfort and security and passion and desire and a general feeling of this-is-where-I’m-supposed-to-be.

“Al — he is what’s important to me.”

_And I have to let him know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that Al perceives Napoleon as a closed-off, prudent sort of guy — which is pretty true — but Al remains oblivious to his own hypocrisy, and that he’s probably worse than Napoleon when it comes to internalizing thoughts and feelings. 
> 
> I guess he gets a free pass since he has no choice but to internalize them — he can’t just go waltzin’ up to Napoleon bein’ like: “Yo, I used to know you but it wasn’t really you, it was a different you that looked exactly like you and that you is gone now and the experience left me emotionally unstable but now I have you back and even if it’s not the same you I still love you!”
> 
> That’s how you get pepper-sprayed.


	6. Admittances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally — finally! — get over themselves.

Napoleon can’t stand it anymore. He had sorted things out, he put extra thought into it, he even asked for an outsider’s opinion. He knows what he wants and now he is unstoppable.

It’s been a little less than a year since his arrival to this strange museum, simultaneously making it a year since they met and became friends. They know each other, they enjoy each other’s company, they get along. It’s all there. The ingredients to a happy couple. Everything is accounted for, checked out, balanced, neatly tucked into its proper place.

He finds Al, surprisingly enough, in the abstract sculpture room, sitting on a bench, not doing anything in particular. The perfect moment!

_Are you really going to go through with this?_

_Will you be able to withstand the heartbreak if Al turns out to be uninterested and you just read the signs wrong?_

_Are you prepared for that?_

_Will you be ready?_

_Are you ready?_

No going back now! He’s come too far and has egged himself on too thoroughly to let all of this newfangled hubris go to waste. One step in front of the other — that’s what he needs to focus on. 

“Oh, hey,” Al greets once he notices Napoleon approaching him. 

_“Bonjour.”_ He scoots, giving him some room on the bench; Napoleon sits next to him. “And what are you up to?”

“Sittin’. When it comes down to it, there really ain’t much to do here.”

As much as he dislikes the idea of putting this into consideration, it must be discerned: He finds Al very attractive. Like, holy hell. Napoleon is undoubtedly smitten, no question about it. Especially when Al would stand close and leer down at Napoleon and, woah, it’s impossible _not_ to imagine what he feels like underneath that black suit and what he would do if — agh, he must stop this. It is weird to rationally deliberate upon, but it is an important factor nonetheless.

“Only you could find a museum boring.”

“Says the one who’s only been here for a year.”

“I guess that is fair.”

Napoleon swallows. So far, so good. Friendly chit-chat, nothing too deep or personal. He needs to change that.

_Here goes nothing —_

“Hey, Napoleon?”

_Ugh, what now?_ “Yes?”

“There’s somethin’ I needa tell ya,” Al says sheepishly, eyes trained on the floor. “And I need ya to listen. For once.”

“Of course,” he says, ignoring the humorous insult that had fallen flat. _“Sto ascoltando.”_ (I am listening.)

Al finds it within himself to look up at Napoleon — which, considering his short stature even when they’re seated, is technically looking _down_ — and flash a bashful smile that vanishes before Napoleon can properly comprehend _what_ kind of smile it was. Happy, sad, forced, light-hearted? What is this man _thinking_?

Al taps his right foot, wringing his hands together absently, his gray skin tone a shade darker than it usually is. Napoleon is patient but the continuously stretching silence makes him uncomfortable. 

A million thoughts race through his mind, desperately attempting to put the pieces together. _What is he going to say? Why is he so nervous? Did Al fall ill? Can exhibits even get sick? Did someone die?_ Oh, of course Napoleon would attempt to confess his love for Al at the worst possible time! 

“I, uh…” Al purses then unpurses his lips. “We’ve known each other for a year now. And, if we’re being honest, it was a long year.”

He nods in agreement.

“And you’ve been a good friend to me, Napoleon. A really good friend. I… well, who am I kiddin’? It would’ve been difficult if ya weren’t here.”

The eye contact he fixes Napoleon with is unfaltering and, if Napoleon’s being honest, a bit unsettling. But he doesn’t back down, doesn’t turn away. Is this an intimidation tactic? It couldn’t be; Al looks about ready to tear up, filled with some sort of wry emotion that only confuses Napoleon. 

_“Quello che sto cercando di dire è…”_ (What I’m tryna say is…)

* * *

This was so much harder than the first time! When Al got together with the Old Napoleon, all they had to do was look at each other and realize their mutual attraction and tension meant something more and then kiss underneath the romantic moonlight (much to Amelia’s dismay). 

Agh! He should’ve waited! He should’ve planned this better! He should’ve gotten advice! He should’ve convinced Larry not to get a new Napoleon exhibit in the first place! He should’ve —

* * *

Napoleon is shocked. If Al wasn’t so gray, he would’ve turned as red as a tomato. 

It is Napoleon — of course! — who pulls away. He shoves Al with all his might. The way his eyes search Al’s, Al can’t tell if he’s disgusted, alarmed, afraid, confused, or a mixture of all four. 

_“Stupido — stupido uomo!”_ (You stupid — you stupid man!)

Oh. That’s what he is.

Angry.

“Napoleon, I’m sorry, but ya gotta hear me out, I —”

“You cannot go around kissing men without their permission!”

“No, you hear me out! I — I just…!” he pleads.

“Let me speak!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t think —”

_“Al!”_

He falls quiet. The whole world feels as if it has been silenced by such a shout. If Al didn’t have his dignity, he would’ve hung his head like a child caught red-handed doing something that they weren’t supposed to be doing.

Napoleon continues, steadily, “I am not disgusted with you.”

The silence stretches even further until Al manages a small “…No?”

“No,” he affirms, “I am not. I am just… surprised. It is not everyday that you are kissed unexpectedly. I am sorry for the… hasty way I reacted.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry. That’s wrong. I shouldn’t have done that. It was the heat of the moment ‘n I had no idea how to… y’know, say it.” He swallows. “I understand if ya don’t wanna talk to me anymore — I deserve that.”

Napoleon clasps his hands on Al’s shoulders in a friendly manner and looks up at him admiringly. “Al, you are my friend. I like you.”

He just stares at Napoleon dumbly.

“Well?” Napoleon is delightfully amused with Al’s inability to process the turnout of this messy, messy situation. 

_“Intendi…?”_ (You mean…?)

“Of course I do. Now, why don’t you kiss me the proper way? I give you my permission,” he adds cheekily.

Al is nothing less than ecstatic. A little confused, maybe, but he certainly hadn’t been expecting such promising results, and these results exceeded the original expectations that he’d rather not dwell on at the moment because, hey, it’s not like they mattered anymore.

He got Napoleon back. He got him _back_ for real this time. It might not be the old one, the one he originally fell in love with all those years ago, but now he won’t be unhappy anymore, now he’ll be able to move on, perhaps even forget about it. 

Their kiss is short and unchaste (which might be considered odd since it’s was their “first” kiss), although Al swears he can hear uplifting orchestral music in the background, as if this was the climax in a movie or an uplifting scene in a play or a moment of peaceful clarity in a video game. Not that he played video games. He saw advertisements in magazines here and there.

_I missed you_ , he thinks. _I can’t say it out loud because you’d never believe me, but I missed you. I missed you so much._

_And you’re never leaving me again._

_Not ever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know what it is but the line “You cannot go around kissing men without their permission!” is so funny to me in this situation.


	7. Disagree to Agree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be forewarned: This is a very explicit chapter.

Three years is a long time. Especially when you live in a museum because there really isn’t much to do; and _especially_ when the bed exhibits just got removed, restricting you and your boyfriend’s “cuddle time ‘n sexy time” — Al’s wording, not Napoleon’s.

So it goes without saying that they’ve been planning this for awhile. A one-night escape to a hotel. It’s foolproof: Al had commandeered the museum’s phone at the receptionist’s desk to book a reservation at a prestigious hotel nearby. Through much consideration, Napoleon had borrowed clothing from two 90’s exhibits with similar measurements, as to not stand out among the modern pedestrians. 

They escape there in the night, undetected; giddy. It feels good. It feels exhilaratingly _bad_. 

Napoleon sits in the scalding-hot water of the bathtub. His clothing lies in a neatly folded pile atop the washbasin’s clear blue countertop. White tiled walls and checkerboarded flooring and one of those fuzzy rugs found in most personal bathrooms that tickle the soles of one’s feet — it is all so nice, so different from typical life at the museum. 

And then Al barges in through the door. Well, not _barges_ — that is a word Napoleon associates with him, considering his boastful, in-your-face personality. But no. Al only quickly walks through the door, uncharacteristically upbeat and carefree. 

In English, he says, “It warms my heart to see you so — ah, how do you say? — relaxed.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, we're on _vacation_. Jus’ speak Italian.”

“But I must practice so I am good, yes?”

“Tonight ain’t for practice.”

_“Suppongo tu abbia ragione,”_ he submits, switching to the easy flow of Italian. _“Ma sto migliorando, no?”_ (I suppose you are right. But I am improving, no?)

A cloud faintly drifts over Al’s face, the face that people make when they slice onions or send their kid away for the first day of kindergarten. Pained. It’s only for a split second. It’s always a split second. Distant memories resurfacing, swirling around, locked inside that big gray head of his. Things that Napoleon cannot begin to understand.

And then it’s gone.

“Yer perfect,” he replies. “I fancy the way ya talk, actually. It’s endearin’, y’know? Everybody thinks so.”

“When will you join me?”

“Join?” Al looks down at him and grins. A surge of excitement. He returns to the current task at hand. “In a second. Don’t let that thought go anywhere, y’hear?”

_“Non lo farò.”_ (I will not.)

“Ya better not.”

Gentle laughter bounces off of the walls.

“Ya gonna let me in on the joke?”

“Oh, it is just that you are so childish. I am ‘endeared,’ as you say.”

“I’m excited, is what. It’s kinda funny — I go full caveman sometimes. I don’t know where my head goes.”

“Ah, such is life.” He goes silent for a moment, looking around the bathroom, making tiny ripples in the water with a finger, fiddling with his hands, absently. Then he lays it on thick: “Would you like to ride me?”

At this, Al nearly slices his cheek off; he slowly turns his head, comedically wide-eyed and slack-jawed. _“Huh?”_

“You heard me,” he says, revelling in Al’s astonishment. “Or do you not want to…?”

“No, no. I wanna,” stutters Al. “I totally wanna. Like, a lot. Like — sorry, it’s jus’… surprising that ya — but, yeah, I really wanna.”

“You have such a way with words,” Napoleon says, both mockingly and romantically. “I am mesmerized.”

“Jus’ wait. When I’m done, oh boy…”

“Do not shave too fast. You will cut yourself.”

“I ain’t.”

“You are.”

“Ya think too highly of yourself, Yer Majesty.” The razor clatters into the sink. He turns to Napoleon, smiling as if he were performing a big reveal. “Whatcha think?”

“I think you should come over here,” he suggests, “but I like it. You are very handsome.”

_“Grazie.”_ (Thanks.)

Al takes his sweet time slipping out of his clothes, especially his underwear. Napoleon is not a fan of strip-teasing or whatever the term is, but Al still likes to put on a little show, even if it results in Napoleon being more annoyed than turned on. 

He climbs into the sizable tub, water sloshing back and forth, displeased by such a change in the previously peaceful atmosphere; leave it to Al to cause chaos wherever he went, no matter how big or how small. When he makes a move to straddle, Napoleon tells him to not come on top yet, to instead lay back opposite of him, because he wants to “prepare” Al properly. Al winces at the hot water that scalds his flesh as he plops down. He spreads his legs so that Napoleon is able to climb over him on his hands and knees, lining up their crotches. 

Their lips connect. The steam rising from the tub makes everything all the more delicious, Al easily slipping his tongue into Napoleon’s mouth, a pleasant tingling sensation in his member, Napoleon touching every part of Al that he could.

He looks down at Al in admiration after they pull apart. “I have wanted to do this for a while,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I never took ya for the ‘dirty secrets’ type. Yer so prudent all the time.”

“‘Dirty secrets?’ Oh, I am afraid to know yours. I could not keep up,” he jokes. His face crinkles into a genuine little smile at the thought. 

_“È vero.”_ (True.)

Steaming water beads down their bodies, a few hairs clinging to their foreheads, sweat and water and lust bleeding together until no one could tell the difference anymore. Napoleon peppers kisses down Al’s neck and shoulder, his hands simultaneously squeezing the flesh of his sides, every once in a while nibbling his little freckles. 

“Na…” Al begins to say but can’t seem to finish, cut off by a soft moan of pleasure. He breathes loudly, in and out, in and out, in and out… Everything’s happening so fast yet so slow and sensuous and it’s all so dizzying. 

Napoleon gifts him another long kiss, positioning himself on his knees so that he could clutch Al’s face. They pull apart, both out of breath, and suddenly Napoleon slithers two fingers, his index and his middle, past Al’s glossy lips. They are readily welcomed. Without breaking eye contact, Al sucks on them, the fingers moving around, pumping themselves, deeper and deeper down his throat. Napoleon grins lustfully, staring at Al as if he is a scientist analyzing a particularly pleasing experiment. 

“Mmm,” he moans when he feels Napoleon’s member lurch. He still hasn’t _ridden_ him yet, and he can tell Napoleon is getting a little impatient. 

His fingers pull out of Al’s mouth, resulting in a small _pop!_ that invigorates both. Napoleon moves them below Al, ghosting, and then thrusts them into him without warning.

He is reduced to a moaning mess. His voice echoes off of the bathroom walls and Napoleon is certain he will cause them a noise complaint one of these days. Not discouraged, he puts another finger into Al, pumping rhythmically and carefully, deeper with every movement, which only raises the volume. But Al gradually gets used to the feeling and begins to welcome it passionately, thrusting his hips upwards, breathing quickly, chest rising and falling, his heart akin to a rabbit’s. 

“I love seeing you like this,” murmurs Napoleon. _“Sei così bello…”_ (You are so handsome…)

And then he stops. 

Al is breathlessly confused, rightfully feeling a bit cockblocked but too high on pleasure to feel properly puzzled. “Wha… ah, what’d ya —”

Napoleon only sits back against the other side of the tub. “Do you not want a ride?”

Without responding, Al practically jumps on top of him. Kneeling in front of Napoleon, he positions himself atop his lap, legs folded on either side of his torso, and lowers himself onto Napoleon’s erect member. It takes a moment, Al breathing harshly, stifling moans in a proud sort of way, as Napoleon watches with great interest, his hands running up and down Al’s sides. Finally, all the way mounted, Al wraps both his arms around Napoleon’s neck and kisses him. He nibbles at his lower lip, feeling Napoleon chuckle at the sensation, and then suddenly thrusts his hips so harshly that Napoleon makes an ungodly sound, allowing Al to slide his tongue into his mouth. Precipitation coats their faces, and none of them have ever felt so hot and so lustful all at once.

“You play dirty,” he coos when they pull apart. “Alphonse…”

Napoleon’s moans are gentle and well-managed to an extent, but Al is loud, which only makes Napoleon thrust upwards harder and faster, contributing more and more to the noise.

Al moves back and forth; eventually, things get messy. They always do. Rhythm is replaced with primitivity. Primitivity is fast and deep and loud. One has never felt so good. The world falls back into a haze and one can feel every aspect of one’s body, even the sweat beading down their chest, their back, their belly, and perhaps one’s vision blurs until all one can think about is how good they feel. But then it comes to a screeching halt and they finish and everything evens out in the end. 

After their highs die down and Al slides off of him, falling back into the otherside of the tub, Napoleon suggests that they go dry off. Al puts his index finger up as if to say _Wait_. He lazily lies back in the not-so-clean-bathwater, the gradual rise and fall of his chest a spectacle to look upon.

“‘Wish we could do this all the time,” he murmurs. 

Napoleon watches with great intrigue. At times, he gives him the impression that Al is one of those Greek statues at the museum; beautifully posed, elegantly humane. Nonchalantly exposed.

“We cannot fall asleep. You know what could happen.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Al concedes. “But it ain’t late at all. We got some more hours for some us-time.”

He gets to his feet and helps Napoleon out of the bathtub. They use snow-white towels to dry themselves off, Al periodically giving Napoleon discrete once-overs and innocent ogles, which prompted a few good-natured whacks with the towel. 

“Ever the prude, huh?”

Napoleon ties his towel around his waist. Meanwhile, Al tosses his towel over his shoulder, essentially leaving him totally naked. And while Napoleon is not uncomfortable with that, he can’t help but wish that Al shared at least some of his prudency.

Al checks the bedside table but stops short. “Where’d my watch go?”

“You left it on the sink.”

“Really? Could’ve sworn…”

“Are you sure exhibits cannot age? I am sensing some amnesia in my companion.”

_“O, sta 'zitto.”_ (Oh, shut it.)

Napoleon watches Al walk back towards the bathroom. “Leaving so soon?” he teases.

“Look, when I walk back out of this door, ya better lose that towel ‘n be layin’ on that bed, capeesh?”

“Capeesh.”

Al disappears into the bathroom. Napoleon takes his time, neatly folding his towel on a chair near the windowsill and trying to put some respectability back into his messy hair. He climbs into the bed and lays down, head against the headboard, wondering how he should present himself. He isn’t exactly a stunning model that can strike a pose like Al can, but he doubts Al is too concerned about that. So he just lays there and waits. 

When he returns, he climbs onto the bed and over Napoleon, catching his lips in a swollen kiss. Both are completely naked, still a little wet from the bath, and all revved up to go again. 

_“Sei mio,”_ he murmurs, nibbling at his neck. (Mine.)

Napoleon only purrs in appreciation. He’d gotten used to such absent comments by now, and was even taking an unabashed liking to them due to Al’s persistent continuity. 

“Hey, Nippy?”

“Mm?” he mumbles, biting on Al’s earlobe in a way that always drives him up the wall. Truth be told, Napoleon isn’t too concerned with what he wants to say — Al has an awful track record of killing the mood with dumb jokes and inappropriate comments. 

“I wanna try somethin’ tonight.”

They look at each other. Napoleon is a little uneasy, surely surprised, but open to ideas nonetheless. _“Cos'hai in mente?”_ (What do you have in mind?)

He can tell that Al is sheepish. Oh, this will be an awkward conversation, he can tell. 

“Have ya ever thought of… turnin’ over?”

_Oh._

“I… uh…”

“It’s totally fine if ya don’t wanna! I ain’t tryna be… y’know, but…”

“No, no,” he affirms, giving Al a little smile. “It is fine. I will.”

He searches his eyes, looking for the joke, the sarcasm, the disgust that he had initially expected. “Yer… serious?”

_“Certo, perché no?”_ (Sure, why not?)

Al’s boyish excitement is both charming and a little irritating. “Well, I only like it if ya like it, so if yer not totally into it, then I don’t wanna —”

_“In quale modo?”_ (In what way?)

_“Che cosa?”_ (What?)

“In what way would you want to do it? On my hands and knees, laying down, standing…?”

“Ya — yer actually into this?”

He doesn’t dignify the question with a simple yes or no. “What will it be, Al?” he says impatiently. 

Al motions to the wall. “Preferably against that wall. But don’t do it jus’ ‘cause I wanna, it’s totally fine if this sorta thing ain’t up yer alley —”

“Al,” Napoleon sternly silences him, “if you do not shove me up against that wall and turn me over and fuck my brains out right this moment, I will make sure you can never walk again.”

“Now, I do like the idea of that…”

He feigns a pout. “Do not let me get me all excited for nothing…”

“Alright, alright,” he says, slowly getting off of Napoleon. “Up against the wall, partner. Hands up where I can see ‘em.”

“If you pretend to be a policeman, I will _actually_ make sure you will never walk again,” he says. He puts his hands up against the wall; he hears Al rustle around behind him. “I do not have all night, you know.”

He suddenly feels a warm body press against his back, a member pressed against his ass, and two strong arms enveloping his sides, hands running up and down his chest, stomach, lower, lower… 

Hot breath on his shoulder.

  
_Oh, this will be fun indeed._


End file.
